I've never thought of it as substantial enough to be a village, this double-sided, four-building strip. It was better way back when when the world was less advanced and people had lower expectations. There used to be a hotel at the end, which maybe would have added a little more grandeur, something to drive towards, a centerpiece. But there only used to be a hotel. It burned down. Some years ago, before I was born. And now there are only coffee-stained black and white snapshots of what used to be more momentous. Ironically enough, the house that replaced the used-to-be hotel was recently engulfed in flames as well. Perhaps there is a curse. Probably not. But either way, it's worse than when there was nothing but an empty lot of grass, because now there are ugly blackened ruins that greet you as you enter and exit the “village” of sorts. It's quite the unavoidable eyesore, considering that you simply must pass it if you plan to leave the island at all. Well, I suppose there is an alternate route, but it's very out-of-the-way and wastes too much gas to be worth it. Who knows what the tourists will think! Then again, maybe it doesn't really have so negative an impact. It does give a touch of character to the otherwise uneventful collection of ordinary structures untouched by fiery death. I suppose a singed bookend is better than none at all, right?
Girl 360
Saturday morning, after a summer away, my father and park our bicycles outside the small coffee shop in Deer Isle Village. We have just come from Saturday morning tennis, and are in dire need of a sweet sticky bun and cup of coffee. ( Or in my case something a bit fancier, perhaps a Macchiato.) As we walk in the shop, the screen door banging behind us, I notice a familiar face behind the counter. Memories of not so long ago come rushing back: rides home in the back of my brother's pick-up truck, shared artistic enlightenment, and a pair of "grandma" sunglasses (inside joke) combined with a stolen disposable camera.
I treat my father because I feel guilty about the over-priced baked goods and fancy drinks. We take a seat at one of the round tables just large enough to hold our cups. At the moment we are the only people in the shop. Cat Power, or some other folky music is playing. Our server, the familiar face, grabs a book and takes a seat at another table, glancing up me and my father every once in a while. My father and my conversation lingers off, and the familiar face instantly jumps in. We learn about her plans now that she has graduated from college. I am surprised at what I hear. It is not the future I had envisioned for her. The the questions turn on me- what are my plans for college? I quickly throw out the well-rehearsed answer, with my father gladly filling in the blanks. Though I would've loved to go deeper into conversation with this person I idolize about my future, I am awkward, and bad at initiating conversation.
The door slams as more customers, more familiar faces walk into the coffee shop. Some friendly remarks are tossed around amongst us all. My father and I finish up so that the next customers can enjoy the quiet of the coffee shop and their own conversation with the familiar face behind the book.
The screen door slams as we exit the shop, and hop on our unlocked bicycles. My father suggests a small detour around Pressey Village, only seven extra miles.
Descriptions, rants, history, future, whatever.....
Deer Isle Village:
Girl 828
Girl 67
I've never thought of it as substantial enough to be a village, this double-sided, four-building strip. It was better way back when when the world was less advanced and people had lower expectations. There used to be a hotel at the end, which maybe would have added a little more grandeur, something to drive towards, a centerpiece. But there only used to be a hotel. It burned down. Some years ago, before I was born. And now there are only coffee-stained black and white snapshots of what used to be more momentous. Ironically enough, the house that replaced the used-to-be hotel was recently engulfed in flames as well. Perhaps there is a curse. Probably not. But either way, it's worse than when there was nothing but an empty lot of grass, because now there are ugly blackened ruins that greet you as you enter and exit the “village” of sorts. It's quite the unavoidable eyesore, considering that you simply must pass it if you plan to leave the island at all. Well, I suppose there is an alternate route, but it's very out-of-the-way and wastes too much gas to be worth it. Who knows what the tourists will think! Then again, maybe it doesn't really have so negative an impact. It does give a touch of character to the otherwise uneventful collection of ordinary structures untouched by fiery death. I suppose a singed bookend is better than none at all, right?
Girl 360
Saturday morning, after a summer away, my father and park our bicycles outside the small coffee shop in Deer Isle Village. We have just come from Saturday morning tennis, and are in dire need of a sweet sticky bun and cup of coffee. ( Or in my case something a bit fancier, perhaps a Macchiato.) As we walk in the shop, the screen door banging behind us, I notice a familiar face behind the counter. Memories of not so long ago come rushing back: rides home in the back of my brother's pick-up truck, shared artistic enlightenment, and a pair of "grandma" sunglasses (inside joke) combined with a stolen disposable camera.
I treat my father because I feel guilty about the over-priced baked goods and fancy drinks. We take a seat at one of the round tables just large enough to hold our cups. At the moment we are the only people in the shop. Cat Power, or some other folky music is playing. Our server, the familiar face, grabs a book and takes a seat at another table, glancing up me and my father every once in a while. My father and my conversation lingers off, and the familiar face instantly jumps in. We learn about her plans now that she has graduated from college. I am surprised at what I hear. It is not the future I had envisioned for her. The the questions turn on me- what are my plans for college? I quickly throw out the well-rehearsed answer, with my father gladly filling in the blanks. Though I would've loved to go deeper into conversation with this person I idolize about my future, I am awkward, and bad at initiating conversation.
The door slams as more customers, more familiar faces walk into the coffee shop. Some friendly remarks are tossed around amongst us all. My father and I finish up so that the next customers can enjoy the quiet of the coffee shop and their own conversation with the familiar face behind the book.
The screen door slams as we exit the shop, and hop on our unlocked bicycles. My father suggests a small detour around Pressey Village, only seven extra miles.